Bright Eyes

33. Strangers

The Golot Mountains, The Southern Island, Crystalline
20 Years Ago

Hours before the attack

In the small hours of the morning, Awiyao lay in the dark, turning beneath the blanket draped over him, his eyes shut, everything else quiet save his mind.

    He was dreaming, and in his dream he was watching their village burn, the huts engulfed in flames. Women and children running from the chaos, only for mothers to be stabbed in the gut, only for children to be swiftly decapitated by the same blades that took their mothers' lives, red staining the smooth polished surfaces of steel. The men of Kadasan fought, and they fought well, fought as they had been trained to fight since childhood. But the adversary seemed to outnumber them, like a swarm of insects invading every inch of a vast field, devouring every grain and leaf they could lay their eyes on.

And Awiyao stood in the midst of it all, helpless and unmoving, invisible to everyone, kin and enemy, a ghost bound to the patch of earth beneath his feet.

Then someone somewhere called out, "Chief Dag-iw! Chief Dag-iw!"

Awiyao woke to find himself back in their family's hut, lying on his sleeping mat, one hand resting upon the cool bamboo split flooring. Someone had lit the stove, fire burning on a heap of coals and pine weeds and logs within a circle of rocks set in the middle of the hut. He could hear voices nearby, a conversation ongoing, the stream of their words quick, urgent, scared even.

Something didn't feel right about this.

Curious, Awiyao propped himself up on his elbows, eyes falling upon the scene of three men speaking to his father, who had sat up on his mat. He recognized each of them in the firelight—his uncle, the leader of Kadasan's warriors, a large taut brown man whose long dark hair flowed down his back; next to him, an old man who had served the Kadasan people as an elder since the time of his grandfather as chief; and the Babaylan, a tall thin man whose age and wisdom showed in his silver hair and silver beard.

They were still speaking as Awiyao's mother walked over to the men and sat beside her husband on his mat; still talking as Awiyao pulled the blanket off himself and took a few steps toward them.

All Awiyao could catch from their conversation were the mention of a man, likely a messenger, from the foot of the Golot Mountains, an only one and no one else, a need to speak with the elders, with the chief, with the people.

    Chief Dag-iw stood from his mat, his wife rising beside him. "Tell the man and the others we shall meet at the center of the village," he said, putting on his vest. "And have the umalohokan wake everyone, tell all the people to gather by the bonfire. If this is true, then we must move quickly, before it is too late."

    Awiyao watched as his mother handed his father his cloak, his father draping the woven fabric over his shoulders. Then Chief Dag-iw turned to his son, and said, "I think you must have heard what they said, Awiyao. Put on your vest and your cloak, and perhaps arm yourself as well. A man from the Kadasan lowlands wishes to speak to us all. And waste no time: they say a threat looms on the horizon. We must hurry."

A large bonfire burned bright in the darkness. The umalohokan had done what they had been told to do, to wake the people of the village, their announcement echoing through every house and field, reaching every family, every ear. The people had now gathered themselves at the center of the village, standing in a circle surrounding the blaze, firelight spilling onto faces clearly disturbed from their nightly rest, faces that gave off an air of curiosity and trepidation, collective murmurs resounding to a cacophony of voices.